Cyberpunk Arm Blades Novels & Stories

“Your coin tastes like the castle and I have something against that blade and the castle. Remember? Family feuds? Now, what is it you wear on your neck?” That was the protection they spoke about. They knew this would happen. “I do not know what you’re talking about but it was nice doing business with you” there was no need in hiding my movements now. Brisk steps had me halfway through the room when a blade went whooshing past my face and lodged itself into the wall opposite me. I looked back to see him holding another dagger in one hand and a boomerang in the other “return my weapon, I do not wish to trade it. You can choose from the others”

They wore matching, form-fitting dusters made of heavy, black zinc-weave—the kind of military-grade material used by the elite private security firms in Aethelgard’s third tier. The man in the lead was young, his dark skin marked by clean, synthetic data-ports along his jawline that were currently glowing with a frantic, un-routed green light. In his right hand, he held a sleek, silent pneumatic spike-driver—a weapon designed to punch clean through the thickest Lycan hide without waking the neighbors.

"Tell me what I am looking at." [Warning, Host Eva! Tier 2 Mutated Variant identified: Blade-Stalker. High speed, high durability, and lethal melee capacity. Your hunting knife cannot pierce its main chest plating. Avoid direct blocks. Structural damage to the immediate ledge is critical!] "I do not plan to block, " I said through my teeth, my eyes locked onto the burning red glare of the beast's eyes. The Blade-Stalker did not wait. It let out a loud metallic hiss that made my teeth hurt and its right arm swung forward fast. The bone blade cut through the air with a whistle aiming straight for my neck.

She needed to be shown her place, not just reminded of it. Because of her, I got stabbed. And that bastard—Blade. If this had been a real fight, man to man, without Rain’s safety at stake, I would have shown him exactly what I’d been waiting years to do. I would have ripped his eyes from their sockets and left him as blind as I was. Then, I would have killed him the same way he killed my father. A blind man. That’s what he called me. That despicable, arrogant fool thought blindness made me weak. He had no idea. I may not see like he does, but I see far more than he ever could.

Then I saw him. He stood where no path led, bronze skin gleaming as if hammered straight from ore, eyes faceted obsidian, hair pulled tight into a knot that never moved. Armour wrapped his body in shifting light—blades folded over each other, edges reforming every time my focus tried to hold. A sword the size of a man’s height rode his back, silent, patient. A weapon, not a man. Nyxara’s tone was ice: The First Blade. The name dragged dust from the rafters. Even Selene’s silver shivered.

Zitrey just glared at him and went inside. Matt, seeing how far the distance between them, but she easily closed it by split of seconds, then rubbing his neck and feeling the pain, he had thought, “She was still young, yet have extra-ordinary skills and killing intent. Doesn’t feel pain. Truly a masterpiece of the Dark Moon. A perfect killing machine, that’s why they don’t want to let her go. However, if she won’t go back, those geezer thought its just best to kill her before she will turn her back and come against them. Crimson Blade is the double blade that they raised, and might come to their head. The key to annihilate those bastards Dark Moon.”

The hybrid's arms fall to the ground with the shackles. "Nice try fucker!" I swing my blade a second time decapitating him. Reaper has shifted into his mortal form. He hands me one of the two semi automatic handguns he is holding. We take off running and shooting anything that isn't a dragon, hellhound or king of hell. I scream as I watch Gunner's huge dragon body hit the ground. The earth shakes under our feet. When I finally get to him; what's left of Bael's horde is trying to retreat.

"I am only here to help since I sensed the smell of blood. Forgive me if I have frightened you." Summoning his godly weapon, the thyrsus, would not guarantee his safety from the swiftness of a bow and arrow. Serious wounds and injury would do him no good, even if he's a god, for it'll require him ambrosia, the heavenly food of the gods, for him to recover.

I grasped the front of his expensive vest, and then jammed my boot blade under his chin. It did more damage than I'd expected. The tip of the blade pierced the top of his throat, and penetrated into his mouth. But my weapon of last resort lacked a guard, or quillions, like a dagger. As I drove it into Armon's head, my hand slipped up the naked blade, and I damn near sheared my own fingers off. The pain was sharp, but my blood was up, and there was no time to waste on examining my wound.

“They’re coming. I can hear the hum of their phased-shift units.” The breach happened with a sound like tearing silk. Four "Sovereign" commandos materialized in the center of the gallery, their armor glowing with a faint, pulsing violet light. They were equipped with "Aether-Blades"—weapons that could cut through reinforced steel as if it were paper. They looked at Marcus and Elena with a clinical, arrogant detachment, as if they were merely clearing away rubble. “Step aside, Smith,” the lead commando said, his voice synthesized and cold. “The 'Total Harvest' is a legal and genetic inevitability. You are merely an obstruction in the flow of the Sovereign grid.”